Timetable of Death Read online

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I do now. He spoke with such certainty that he seemed to have definite proof. There’s one sure way that he could have got that, Mr Conway.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leeming, voicing a possibility. ‘Hockaday knows that the killer is still here because the man looks back at him in the shaving mirror every morning.’

  Lydia Quayle read the newspaper report with a mixture of interest and repulsion. Though she wanted to throw it aside, something made her read on. There were some outline details about the nature of her father’s murder but no new information about the likely identity of his killer. When she saw that Scotland Yard detectives had been called in, she wondered how deeply they would rummage into the family life of the man she’d grown to despise so much. In the end, she tore herself away from the article, folding the newspaper up and dropping it into the wastepaper basket.

  There was a light tap on the door, then it opened to admit a short, plump woman of middle years with an enquiring smile.

  ‘May I come in, please?’

  ‘Of course you may,’ said Lydia. ‘This is your house.’

  ‘The house may be mine but this room is exclusively your territory. I made that clear from the start. Everyone is entitled to have a place that is solely theirs.’

  ‘I agree with that, Beatrice, and I’m deeply grateful.’

  Lydia indicated a chair and her friend sat down opposite her. Beatrice Myler had been her salvation. She was a kind, gentle, sympathetic woman who made no demands on her. They had met in Rome when both of them were on sightseeing tours. In the wake of the discovery of Lydia’s secret romance, she had been sent off to Europe with her former governess in the hope that the trip would expunge all her feelings for Gerard Burns. In fact, it did quite the opposite. She thought about him constantly and blamed herself for getting him summarily dismissed from a job that he enjoyed so much. Lydia kept wondering how he would cope and if he was still thinking fondly of her. It was only when she’d bumped into Beatrice Myler in the crypt of a little Italian church that she found herself able to forget about her past life for a while.

  They were two intelligent women with shared interests in music and literature. Beatrice also had a passion for Italian culture and she fired the younger woman with her enthusiasm. Neither was travelling with ideal companions. Lydia was partnered by the elderly governess who was, in essence, her gaoler, paid to watch her carefully and keep her well away from England. Beatrice was there with her uncle, a retired archdeacon in his seventies with an arthritic hip. He and the governess were quite happy to sink down on any available seating and leave the others to their own devices.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you,’ said Lydia.

  ‘You’d have won through somehow. You have an instinct for survival.’

  ‘It was more like desperation to get away from my home. I was suffocated there, Beatrice. They wouldn’t allow me to breathe properly.’

  ‘You did the right thing in striking out on your own.’

  ‘I was in a complete daze at first,’ admitted Lydia, ‘and very frightened. I thought that Nottingham was a big town, but it’s so small compared to London. I’d just never seen so many people.’

  ‘You were very brave to come here, Lydia. This is no place for a young woman by herself.’

  ‘I soon learnt that.’

  Within her first week there, she’d found herself a target for unwanted male interest and had had to move from one hotel to another in order to shake off admirers. Lydia had money enough to look after herself but no anchor to her life. After months of loneliness in the capital, she’d plucked up the courage to take up the invitation given to her by Beatrice Myler to call on her if she was ever in London. When she entered the cosy house in the suburbs, Lydia had found her new home.

  ‘I had a letter from my uncle this morning,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, you know what he’s like. Uncle Herbert had to have his customary moan about arthritis. I think he feels rather cheated. Because he spent all of his working life in holy orders, he believes that God should have given him a special dispensation.’

  ‘He’s a dear old soul. I enjoy his company.’

  ‘As it happened, his letter was all about you.’

  Lydia gaped. ‘Was it, really?’

  ‘Uncle Herbert is very fond of you. He wants you to know that you’re in his prayers.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘You’re in mine, too, of course. I haven’t said anything before because I knew that if you wished to talk about it, you’d already have done so. But I’ve seen the immense strain you’ve been under since … you heard the news. And this morning’s letter has made me want to speak out. Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ said Lydia, squeezing her hand. ‘You’re entitled to speak out.’

  ‘You may not like what I’m going to say.’

  ‘It will be worth hearing, Beatrice. You’re always so sensible.’

  ‘Then my advice is this,’ said the older woman. ‘Go back home, Lydia. This is a time of trial for the whole family. Go back home and build bridges.’

  Having had a meal at a public house in Spondon on the previous evening, Colbeck decided that he didn’t want to repeat the experience. Besides, it was only fair that Leeming should have some consolations for being shunted off to the village. The sergeant had therefore been invited to join him at the Royal Hotel for dinner. As well as guaranteeing the high quality of the cuisine, it gave them a chance to discuss the case in comparative luxury. Colbeck had, as usual, been assiduous. After the meeting with Donald Haygarth and Maurice Cope, and the visit to Melbourne Hall, he’d returned to Derby with the intention of calling on some of the other board members of the Midland Railway. But he did not need to go looking for them because three of them came in search of him. When he interviewed them separately, each had told him more or less the same thing. Vivian Quayle had the vision to be chairman of the company. Haygarth did not. Obliquely, they all hinted that the latter was more than capable of engineering the death of a rival. They also named Maurice Cope as his fellow conspirator.

  ‘Has anyone got a good word to say about Mr Haygarth?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Yes, Victor, I do. He chose this hotel for me.’

  ‘I wish he’d chosen it for me as well. The Malt Shovel has its charms but the floorboards creak and my bed is padded with anthracite. Anyway, do go on, sir.’

  ‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘After talking to Mr Quayle’s colleagues on the board, I made a point of finding the man who’d performed the post-mortem, then – just in case he was missing me – I called in at the police station to see Superintendent Wigg.’

  ‘He’s been sniping at us behind our backs, sir. Philip Conway told me.’

  ‘Don’t take it too seriously, Victor. I rather like that kind of thing. It spurs me on. I asked him what he knew about the Quayle family and, to my amazement, he’d been collecting what information he could about them. He was actually helpful.’ He picked up the menu and ran an eye over it. ‘What about your day?’

  Leeming gave him an edited version of events in Spondon. He told Colbeck about the effort of pushing a heavy wheelbarrow up a hill and about his meetings with Jed Hockaday and Philip Conway. He’d also spoken to the stationmaster in Spondon and learnt how many people had got off the last train on the night of the murder. Curiously, the cobbler had been one of them. The rest of Leeming’s day had been spent fending off people with lurid imaginations and an eye on the reward money.

  ‘To be honest, sir,’ he said, ‘I was glad to escape for the evening. I think I must have spoken to everyone in the village by now.’

  ‘Then there’s no point in your staying there.’

  Leeming’s face glowed. ‘I can move back in here?’

  ‘No, Victor,’ replied Colbeck. ‘You can go home. To be more exact, you can return to London tomorrow to deliver a report on the situation here. I’ve already sent letters to Superintenden
t Tallis but you’ll be able to give him the latest news. Before that, of course, I’d like you to drop off a letter at my house and assure Madeleine that I’m in good heart and thinking of her.’

  ‘I’ll gladly do that. Will I have time to see Estelle and the boys?’

  ‘You can spend the night with them.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘I haven’t arranged a family reunion for your sake,’ warned Colbeck. ‘Frankly, it’s another family reunion that I have in mind. If she’s in London, I want you to find Lydia Quayle. Because of what Burns said about her, she interests me.’

  ‘How on earth am I supposed to find her, sir?’

  ‘You’ll think of a way, Victor. Besides, you won’t be on your own.’

  ‘Who’s going to help me?’

  ‘My wife, of course,’ said Colbeck, putting the menu back on the table. ‘The superintendent would be aghast, naturally, but I think we need a woman on this case. It may involve delicate negotiations and – with respect – that is not your strong suit. Madeleine will be at your side.’ He clapped Leeming on the shoulder. ‘You and she will make an excellent team.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was an unwritten rule that when they had breakfast they never discussed anything of real moment. Neither Lydia Quayle nor Beatrice Myler wanted to start their day with a subject that might lead to argument and impede their digestion. Over their meal that morning, therefore, they confined themselves to domestic trivia. It was only when they’d finished and when the maidservant had cleared away the plates that they felt able to move on to a more serious matter.

  ‘The decision, of course, is entirely yours,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘I know,’ said Lydia, her throat tight.

  ‘It’s a real dilemma.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Beatrice. There’s no right way to proceed. I’ll be damned if I do go back and damned if I don’t.’

  ‘You’ll hear no criticism from me.’

  ‘I won’t need to. I’ll provide more than enough censure myself.’

  ‘Oh, this must be preying on your mind dreadfully. What if …’

  Thinking better of it, Beatrice lapsed back into silence and reached for her tea. Lydia was eager to know what her friend was about to say and eventually cajoled her into telling her what it was.

  ‘I was only going to pose a question,’ said Beatrice. ‘What if your father had died of natural causes? Would you have been tempted to go back then?’

  ‘No,’ said Lydia, ‘definitely not.’

  ‘You sound very convinced of that.’

  ‘I am, Beatrice.’

  ‘And what if your mother had passed away? You’ve often told me how fragile she is. Would that draw you back to Nottingham?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. But it’s a decision I may have to face soon.’

  ‘It should be easier now that your father is … out of the way.’

  ‘Where my family is concerned, there are no easy decisions.’

  Beatrice felt sorry for her but there was little she could do beyond offering her unqualified sympathy. Her own family life had been so different. It had been happy and blissfully uneventful. Never having the desire or the opportunity to get married, she’d found fulfilment elsewhere. Having come into a substantial amount of money on the death of her parents, she could afford to live in a delightful house and visit Italy whenever she chose. But the truth of it was, she now realised, that she’d never been forced to make a decision of the magnitude that now confronted Lydia. It was therefore impossible for her to put herself in her friend’s position. She had never met any of the other members of the family or experienced the deep divisions that they appeared to have.

  ‘Whatever you do, Lydia, you’ll have my full support.’

  ‘That means everything to me.’

  ‘I won’t presume to offer you any more advice.’

  ‘What about your Uncle Herbert?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Beatrice, chortling, ‘he was an archdeacon. He’ll give you advice whether you ask for it or not. Uncle Herbert would see it as his duty.’

  ‘How much have you told him about me?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary to tell him anything, Lydia. People like him just know.’

  Lydia spooned sugar into her tea and stirred it, contrasting the life she now led with the one that she’d escaped. When she’d been at home, she had a family, a position in the community and an ability to follow her interests whatever the costs involved. It was the friendship with Gerard Burns that had been the catalyst for change. Slow to develop, it had started at a cricket match when she saw him in supreme form. As a bowler, he’d terrorised the batting side. Suddenly, he was much more than simply a gardener. Though he was increasingly fond of her, he was held back from making even the smallest move in her direction because she seemed quite unattainable. For anything to happen between them, therefore, it had been up to Lydia to take the initiative and that was what she’d finally done. She’d been shocked at her boldness but thrilled with his response. They began to meet in secret and the attraction eventually burgeoned into love.

  As she looked across the table, she realised that Beatrice had never had that sense of madness, that fire in the blood, that conviction that nothing else mattered than to be with the man she adored. It had somehow been beyond her friend’s reach. What Beatrice had in its place was something that Lydia had come to cherish because it brought a peace of mind she’d never felt before.

  ‘I’d rather stay here with you, Beatrice,’ she said.

  And the discussion was over.

  Madeleine Colbeck took advantage of the bright sunlight flooding in through the window of her studio and started work early that morning. While she knew that there were other female artists in London, she flattered herself that she was the only one who’d forged a reputation for painting steam locomotives and railway scenes. Her father was her greatest source of technical advice but he was also her sternest critic. When she heard the doorbell ring, she feared that he’d called unexpectedly and would come to view her latest work before it was ready to be seen. Opening the door, she listened for the sound of his voice. In fact, it was Victor Leeming who was being invited into the house. After putting her brush aside and wiping her hands on a cloth, Madeleine went downstairs to greet him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Victor?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m to act as a postman,’ he replied, handing over a letter. ‘The inspector said I was to deliver this before reporting to Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Come in the drawing room and tell me everything.’

  She led the way into the room and sat beside him on the sofa. Anxious to open her letter, she felt that it would be rude to do so until she’d talked to her visitor.

  ‘Is Robert still in Derby?’

  ‘Yes, he is, and likely to be there for some time.’

  ‘Have you made any headway in the investigation?’

  ‘I like to think so but I daresay you’ll read about it in the letter.’

  ‘Why did Robert send you back to London?’

  ‘He has work for me to do here, Mrs Colbeck. I’m to stay the night.’

  ‘That will please Estelle,’ she said. ‘By the way, she came here for tea with the boys a couple of days ago. We had a lovely time.’

  ‘Did my lads behave themselves?’ he asked, worriedly.

  ‘They were as good as gold. My father saw to that. Between you and me, I’m very glad that he’s not here at the moment. If he were, he’d insist on telling you how to solve the murder.’

  ‘I wish somebody would. I’m completely confused.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain and I don’t want to repeat what the inspector has told you in his letter. Besides, I need to see Superintendent Tallis. I don’t know why,’ he said, despondently, ‘but whenever I go into his office, I feel as if I’m about to face a firing squad.’

  Madeleine laughed. ‘He’s not that bad, is he? Robert en
joys teasing him.’

  ‘I’d never dare to do that. He’d have me back in uniform in a flash.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Colbeck, and to know that I’ll be in a more comfortable bed tonight than the one I spent the last two nights in.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  ‘There’s no need. You enjoy reading your letter.’

  ‘I’m dying to open it.’

  ‘Then prepare yourself for a surprise. I’ll see you again this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you need to come back?’

  ‘Those are my orders,’ he said with a smile. ‘You and I are going to be working side by side. Open your letter and find out why.’

  To work up an appetite for breakfast, Colbeck had taken a walk around Derby before its streets were bustling with people and noisy with traffic. He liked the town. Its rich medieval legacy was still visible and there was a sense of civic pride that he admired. When he’d had his breakfast, he went off to find Maurice Cope.

  ‘Derby is a good blend of the old and the new,’ he remarked. ‘It’s full of lovely, narrow, winding streets as well as big, solid, purposeful buildings. You must enjoy living here, Mr Cope.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the other, ‘I live in Kedleston. Not in Kedleston Hall, I hasten to add – that’s far too grand for me. I live in the village.’

  ‘Does it have a railway station?’

  ‘Not yet, but I hope that it will one day.’

  ‘I could say the same of Melbourne. A branch line there would have saved me a lot of time. How do you get into Derby every day?’

  ‘I ride,’ said Cope. ‘I find a steady canter very invigorating of a morning. It’s only three miles away from Derby.’

  Colbeck was surprised. In his view, Cope was an unlikely horseman. Indeed, he looked as if he got very little physical exercise. Yet, although he worked for a railway company, he chose to live somewhere yet to be served by it. That seemed perverse. They were in an office that seemed to reflect Cope’s character. It was clean, well organised and dull. There was nothing to excite the eye or stimulate the brain.